You See, I Know Them
by sleepwalk
Summary: See yourself through someone else's eyes.
1. part 0

Disclaimer: This is a work of original fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters used are the sole property of Marvel Entertainment. No profit is made from this work.

**You See, I Know Them**

I watch as they go about their lives. That's what we do here, really. We live. Despite all the attacks and rebuilding, this is not where we fight. This where we eat and sleep. This is where we work and play. This is the place we spend time with friends and lovers. This house and its grounds are where we lay our dead to rest.

We have dozens of students here. Hell, we've had dozens of X-men. The people here are no different than anyone else, anywhere else. Mutations aside, people are just people. They have their little quirks and their pet peeves. They have their deep dark secrets.

This giant house, with its private lake and acres of land, is just a small corner of the world. It's a lot like a small town. Everybody talks. But there's more than gossip when it comes to the side people don't show. I don't pretend to have them all figured out, but I'm pretty good at this. You see, I know them in a way others can't. I should. After all . . .


	2. part 1

Disclaimer: This is a work of original fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters used are the sole property of Marvel Entertainment. No profit is made from this work.

**I Am Their Doctor**

Peter is a genetic marvel. Not withstanding his metallurgical physiology, of course. His strength, his speed and endurance.

A common concern with those of Comrade Rasputin's dimensions is that of a cardiac nature. Fortuitously his lineage is full of similarly proportioned forbears who expired at advanced ages. He has all the advantages of being a big man and none of the drawbacks. His reflexes and speed are the same as any athlete two-thirds of his size.

I reminisce back to the gridiron and the way we were analyzed like livestock at training combines. I wonder how the Soviet Olympic Committees ever managed to overlook the Rasputins.

Scott has exemplary vision, a fact I find ironic and appropriate at the same time. I like to postulate that, like Warren, it coincides with his mutation. Why let a man soar high above or blast to smithereens something he cannot see?

The medical community tests vision to a "perfect" score of 20/20. It has been theorized that many fighter pilots and baseball players have vision that approaches 20/8, possibly even 20/3. Perhaps this is the reason, our monocular leader seems to enjoy and excel in both endeavors.

Since we became teammates, Emma has opted to obtain outside medical services. She cites conflict of interest with her physician also being her teammate. I respect that decision, although she does not seem to have any such reservations, discussing optional procedures done to her personage. Still, I'd love to shake the hand of the surgeons who produced The White Queen's most devastating weapon.

Gambit refuses to listen to reason. His smoking has quelled over the past few years (and I expect I have a certain southern belle to thank.) The crown jewel of his arguments, unfortunately come from this humble physician.

I accidentally let it slip that the mutant population had inherent resistances to certain diseases, one in particular, cancer. The mansion's resident Cajun took this as a cue to, "Laissez les bon temps roulez." I have spent the majority of our contact subsequent to that blunder, trying to develop is him, a fear of cystic fibrosis.


	3. part2

Disclaimer: This is a work of original fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters used are the sole property of Marvel Entertainment. No profit is made from this work.

**I Am Their Leader**

Logan is probably the single most accomplished hand-to-hand fighter I have ever seen. One of the reasons I had trouble trusting him was that I found it odd how someone could remember intricate katas, but not know his own name. Now I know that the katas, useless as they are in a practical sense, are as important to his memory as they are to another martial artist's sense of balance.

The reason I have the ability to trust a loose cannon with deadly claws and the hots for my wife? Its his defense. His defense, every duck, parry and counter, starts as a flinch. Its almost imperceptible. I saw it by accident. Its hard to concentrate on something like that with razors in your face, but I saw it and now I can't help but see it every time. It bothers him immensely, because he knows I know. It bothers me immensely, because that means that Logan's legendary prowess, his mastery over combat and violence, was learned by trial and error. He's a dog that finally learned not to get hit.

I love having Rogue on the team. Logistically, she's perfect. Something heavy's in the way? Rogue's on it. Need someone to scrap with a badass? Rogue's on it. People are in trouble, waaay up there? Rogue's on it. The trick is to make her forget the gloves.

She's scared of making contact. She's scared of having Sabertooth in her head like Carol was. She's scared that some hapless victim is going to survive an explosion, only to have some damned mutie suck his life away, leaving his children fatherless. She's scared of looking me in the eye after making a mistake in the field.

All of that goes away when she's so busy, that she can't think about it. So I have to ride her. I have to make her the running back, the workhorse of every mission. The moment she slows down and the adrenaline stops pumping, she starts thinking. She starts worrying. She stops being effective.

Kitty and Peter. A more unlikely pair, I couldn't imagine.

A techno-geek and a painter. Steel and shadow. A mountain and a molehill.

Kitty, all hundred or so pounds of her, will jump into the action like a whirling dervish, throwing knives, lashing out with a staff. Peter just stands in front or in back, waiting to take the hit or break what he's told to break.

She's the riot cop. Her job is to create a counter-chaos. She keeps _them_ on _their _toes. They have to pay attention to her because they never know what's coming next. There's rhyme and reason to her attacks, but it's in a support sense. A shuriken won't hurt the Blob, but a shower of them will make him blink. A blink is all it takes.

He's the fireman. Find the worst situation available and Peter will go in there to get someone else out. When he first came to the team, he considered everybody smaller than him to be his responsibility. That covered just about everybody except the X-jet. That's when Wolverine will stop and look away from an opponent. When some poor bastard decides to hurt one of the smaller people, he likes to watch what Peter does to them.

I can't blame him, though. The things Peter does when Kitty affords him a blink . . . it can be a beautiful thing.


	4. part3

Disclaimer: This is a work of original fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters used are the sole property of Marvel Entertainment. No profit is made from this work.

**I Am A Telepath**

Robert Drake is one of my favorite discoveries. His incredible power, self confidence, self realization was because of me.

Don't think for one minute that lack of imagination was the reason he was content to throw snowballs at Magneto all those years. Half a day in his head and it became apparent that Robert was a subscriber to the theory that not really trying meant not really failing. Daddy Drake probably yelled at him for bringing home a few B-pluses over the years.

That was probably compounded by his youth on the team and his status to the others. Cyclops had raw power. Beast had physical ability. Angel had looks and money. Iceman had yellow galoshes and a stack of magazines under his bed. It took him until the age of twenty-six, but Iceman finally stopped being a little boy. Brava. Brava, me.

You're afraid. You're afraid that everyone will discover that you're different now. You've always been different though, now haven't you?

Those other jock-strapped lummoxes could never understand the types of theories and concepts you found so fascinating. The science club never felt comfortable with that varsity jacket being worn by their president. The other X-men never got used to the fur in the shower drain, either.

Maybe that's why you were so exhilarated by The Avenger's. You weren't different to them. You were The Beast. God knows you were more useful after the increased strength and endurance. Would they react to you now, the same way Scott and Warren did after you drank that "cure" of yours. Blue, hairy Hank is one thing, but a toe-walking feline? Maybe you're right to be afraid Hank. Nobody here will hunt you down with torches and pitchforks. They'll just flinch when they see you and make excuses for not spending the time with you that they used to. Imagine if they knew the way you think differently now. Is it really even thinking? I wonder.

Ororo Munroe. Regal woman of class and distinction. Uncrowned princess. Goddess of Nature. You are a saucy little minx, aren't you?

I don't normally dig into peoples heads. I just walk around and take in the sights, really. But you. You, dear woman, take the cake. I enjoy my men. I enjoy them in many ways. You, however, are simply man-crazy with a one-track mind. Maybe it's a cultural thing. Your adolescence in tribal society probably influenced you to be attracted to the very fit males and there are quite a bit of them walking around here.

I find it particularly interesting that Charles is only sexual in your mind when he can walk. I would have thought that age would have been the issue.

You love Wagner's playful nature and his tight behind. Logan's fierce loyalty and his fierce passion make you value him as a teammate and as a man. Worthington, whether flighty or haughty, could never be more than a carnal treat to you.

But you don't love them. Not in the way so many have wanted. Forge came close, mind you, but something was missing. Do you even know what it is? I do.

The ones who intrigued you the most, wind-rider. Think about them. The lightning-thrower, the vampire, Von Doom. They had something in common. They had something in common with another. The one you would never admit to. Don't worry about that one. I'm keeping him quite happy.


	5. part4

Disclaimer: This is a work of original fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters used are the sole property of Marvel Entertainment. No profit is made from this work.

**I Am Their ****Mentor**

Watching the three of them grow was more of a joy than I ever thought. Jean and Henry were more or less finished products when I received them at my house. Hank was more of an assistant than a student. Jean was as much the den mother then as she is . . . was at the time of her passing. But the three boys I watched grow into men, into X-men and more . . . I feel my failings as a father are redeemed if I had any influence whatsoever in these men.

I remember Warren as brash and as headstrong as only a young man of seventeen can be. His entire identity centered about the culture of wealth, the trappings of society. By the teenage years, children begin to identify themselves as individuals, rather than members of a family. For Angel, it was the opposite. Although he defined himself by the life he was born into, he had no strong ties to it. To this day, his devotion to Worthington Industries is more out of responsibility to the employees than to his father's memory.

It was with us that he discovered family. He found brothers to bond with, to teach and to learn from. He found a rival and, in doing so, he found humility. The first time Warren Worthington didn't get what his way was when Scott Summers and Jean Grey became "Jean and Scott."

He was angry and spiteful. He still has a temper.

He was humiliated and frustrated. He remains prideful.

He craved what he could not have. He, to this day, loves Jean in a special way. And it is enough for him, as was the love of Betsy and now, it seems, Paige.

The horrors that have shaped his body have not outdone the miracles that have strengthened his soul. Warren was once a songbird, flying high and carefree. That boy is no more. The song bird has become an eagle. No less beautiful, a hundred times stronger. The boy is now a man.

Perhaps Robert is to remain a child at heart. His path has been no less fraught with danger. His heart has been tried no less than any of my other children. Yet, somehow he always manages to find the irony of any situation, if not its silver lining.

I imagine it is always hard for the youngest son. It becomes a position, rather than a distinction. If not for Bobby Drake, Hank would have become an eighteen-year-old shut-in. The Emily Dickinson of biochemistry. Scott and Warren would likely have killed each other.

The forced immaturity has taken its toll on him. His self-confidence had to recover from damage while it still had yet to fully develop. His romantic relationships have always been the hardest for him. He couldn't have a love that did not know his family. His place in the family was never, in his eyes, good enough for the woman he sought company with. This always led to frustration for him. Until recently.

After his break-up with Opal, I saw things change in Robert. His interest in Rogue notwithstanding, he became much more focused on himself. He would stay up late, bleary-eyed and shaky, to study for his next certification as an accountant. He began to take a legitimate interest in exploring his powers. Bobby Drake, who never wanted to grow up, was growing as a person.

That was when I noticed something. I couldn't quite describe it. I didn't have to. Jubilee did it for me. She said, "Two words: Robin Williams."

I must confess I was intrigued by her analogy. She pointed out the actor's progression from slapstick comedian to confrontational dramatist. Her theory was that, because he was so defined by his fast paced dialogue and off-beat characters, when he talked to someone as himself, as a man, his words carried more weight. I can only liken it to the sharp attention drawn to shattering of funhouse mirror.

Robert Drake is now the voice of reason behind the X-men. That alone is remarkable enough for me.

Scott. It is hard to put into words how I feel about Scott Summers.

Jean is my protégée. Hank is a colleague. Ororo, Kurt and Logan are my friends.

Scott is my son.

There is much wrong with that statement. So many things are wrong that I couldn't possibly think them all through at once.

He is not my son by blood, by law or by ideal. He doesn't agree with me and he never has.

Scott doesn't believe in humans and mutants living peacefully. He doesn't believe that black and white, Jew and gentile or gay and straight will ever accept each other fully. What he believes in is hope.

When I found Scott, he was blind, malnourished and scared. But Scott was never grateful for the food, the clothes or the security I provided him. He never even felt obligated for the visor. It was hope that Scott reclaimed with me. Hope in anything was better than the absence of everything, he said.

I spent a few years guiding him. I educated him, hoping he would put it to use someday, outside these walls. I taught him to use his gift, hoping he would not become the soldier he always knew he was. I gave him a cause, hoping that he would adopt his own someday.

A father is never as proud of his child as when they choose their own, different path. A father is never as hurt as when they watch their child sides against them. Scott has done both. When he left for Alaska and a new life and when Magneto took over as headmaster and he told me I had betrayed the children in my charge.

I'll never forget when he and Corsair were arguing and Corsair told him, "You're a grown man but you're still my son." Scott's reply was that he had been his son for only seven years. I was outraged. I telepathically shouted at him that what his father instilled in him were the traits that made me reach out to him as a son. Everyone in the mansion heard it. Christopher Summers and I have been awkward ever since.

I watched as he has been repeatedly blessed and cursed, by the hand of fate and by his own hand. Jean and Madelyne and Emma. Logan and Storm. Christopher and Alex and Cable and Rachel. Sinister. Apocalypse. Stryfe. The Phoenix.

I once asked myself, "What type of man would I be if I didn't have my gifts, if I had always had my legs?" For the life of me, I couldn't answer that. But I know who I would like to have been.

I hope I would have grown to be just like my son.


End file.
